Mated from the Morgue: A Tale of the Second Empire

by Gabrielle E. Jackson

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE SONG-BIRD'S NEST.

  Joy seldom kills. Before the female figure, whose apparition at thewindow had thrown the girl, so strangely fallen under O'Hara'sprotection, into her second swoon, had time to trip down the stairs, theattack had spent itself, even without the intervention of thebrandy-flask of him whose name was not Beelzebub. The sensitive creaturewas smothered with kisses by her friend, the while the two maleobservers of the situation looked on and at each other with a comicalstare of envy. The newcomer was a slender, willowy woman, of ameridional cast of countenance--hair rich and dark in hue, featuresproud and delicately chiselled, and complexion swarthy. She was tall instature and gracefully built, but rather inclined to the meagre, andseemed as if she had aged before her time. She might not have been morethan twenty-three, but she looked as if verging on thirty, and yet therewas quite a youthful impetuosity in her manner, and springiness in hermovements, as she literally devoured her little friend in her embraces.In the middle of this tantalizing greeting, he whom we shall callFriezecoat, for want of an introduction, called out in his rough andready voice:

  'Ho, ho, my pets! I protest against this, unless we lords of creationare admitted into the arrangement.'

  The brunette turned a look of chilling surprise at him, as ifquestioning who was this intruder who spoke so familiarly. Then, holdingthe little girl of the chestnut hair, whom she saluted as Song-bird, atarm's-length, as if to examine the Song-bird's plumage, she exclaimed:

  'Berthe, you little fool, why did you faint? How do you account forcoming home thus?'

  The only answer Berthe made was to lean her head forward on her friend'sbreast and burst into tears.

  'How like that woman is to Marguerite _la modiste_!' whispered O'Hara toFriezecoat. 'I'm not astonished at her she calls Berthe having mistakenthe body in the Morgue.'

  'Oh, Caroline dear, then you are alive!' said little Berthe, at lengthfinding words amid her sobs.

  'Alive!--yes, really alive, _ma mignonne_, and I shall be chastising youpresently to prove it, if you don't dry those tears. Why do you weep?'

  'I went into the Morgue to see the body of a girl who had drownedherself, and, oh! it was so like you; and then, you know, Caroline,you've been away those three days.'

  'And have I never been at Choisy-le-Roi for three days before?Giddy--giddy girl, you've been to the Morgue. Don't tell this to thegrand-p?re.'

  'Yes, and I have had such a fright. Don't frown, Caroline. I thought'twas you I saw laid out, and when I awoke I was in a carriage withthose gentlemen, who have been very kind to me and brought me home.'

  The brunette bowed graciously to Friezecoat and O'Hara, and said:

  'I thank you infinitely, messieurs, for your kindness to my youngfriend; and if you'll have the goodness to wait a little, I'll call mygrandfather, and he will thank you too, and pay for this vehicle.'

  'Madame, you offend me,' said Friezecoat gruffly.

  'Pardon,' said the brunette, colouring a deep red; 'I see I have made amistake. At least, gentlemen'--with an emphasis on the latter word--'youwill step up to our apartment until grandfather returns you thanks inperson.'

  The four mounted by broad stairs to the third story, and entered asmall, lightsome chamber, neatly furnished. The scent of violets was inthe air. The window was draped with white curtains, the walls were hungwith engravings of military subjects, a cottage pianoforte lay open atone side of the window, a comfortable armchair was set at the other,while high in a wicker-cage a throstle fluttered in the rosy lightbetween. Plaster busts of the first and third Napoleons were set onbrackets, and flanked a large print of the Imperial House, from itsfounder and Josephine, Marie Louise, the King of Rome, and HortenseBeauharnais, down to the youthful Prince Imperial, in his uniform ascorporal of Grenadiers of the Guard.

  After motioning them to seats, the girls disappeared into an inner room,and almost immediately a tall, old man, with head held erect, white hairand moustaches lending him a venerable appearance, the chocolate-colouredribbon of the St. Helena medal in his button-hole, stood in its doorway.

  'Messieurs,' said the old man, advancing stiffly, 'you have been kind tomy grand-daughter, and I, Victor Chauvin, officer of the First Empire,thank you. I am at your service for any duty you can ask me in return;'and the rigid body was bent with soldierly angularity in what wasintended to be a very ceremonious bow.

  'And we--that is, the men of our country--are always at the service ofdistressed females without expecting or asking any return,' saidFriezecoat as formally.

  'What countryman are you, sir?'

  'We are Irish.'

  O'Hara regarded Friezecoat with surprise. How had this bizarre personagediscovered his nationality? He forgot that he had heard him speak.

  'Ah! lusty comrades as ever I met at assault on battery or bottle. Iknew some of them in the Legion in the Man's time,' said the oldsoldier.

  'The man--who was he?'

  'Who was he? There was only one man in this century, and his name wasNapoleon. Sir, I'm afraid you've learned history from P?re Loriquet;'and the old soldier smiled.

  'Yes, he was a man.'

  'Sir, shake hands with me for that,' said Victor Chauvin, evidentlyflattered. 'But you must let the old soldier show his gratitude for yourkindness to his child. I insist on it.'

  'Well, if you will have it so, tell us why your grand-daughter is calledthe Song-bird, and we're repaid?'

  'Because she sings like the nightingale; no, that's too sad. Like acanary; but that's a prisoner. I have it--like the morning-lark, for itssong, fresh and pure, goes up to God's gates! Berthe, enter.'

  At the call, our young acquaintance, the traces of her recentinfirmities entirely removed, came radiantly into the room, smiling withan arch smile.

  'Berthe, my Song-bird, treat those gentlemen, who, you have told me,have been so good to you, to a sample of your voice.'

  'What shall I sing?' asked Berthe, approaching the piano.

  'Sing the romance that friend B?nic wrote for you--_le VieilIrlandais_--for these gentlemen are from that brave and faithful land;ay, brave and faithful, for it has known how to carry the sword withouttaking the cross from its hilt.'

  The girl skilfully passed her fingers over the instrument, executing atremulous prelude, and in a soft, sweet voice, trilled, to a patheticair, the following touching verses, the old soldier joining in at therefrain which ended each:

  Mon fils, ?coute un vieillard centenaire. Tu nais ? peine et moi je vais mourir, Fuis, sans retour, par l'exil volontaire, Le sol ingrat qui ne peut te nourrir. Sur ce navire, o? la foule s'?lance, Tu vas vogeur vers les ?tats-Unis; Dans ces climats, au sein de l'abondance, Vivent heureux vingt peuples r?unis. Des flots de l'Atlantique Ne crains pas le courroux; ?migr? en Am?rique, Ton sort sera plus doux.

  Au jour naissant tu commen?ais l'ouvrage, Sous un ciel gris, pendant un rude hiver; J'ai vu faiblir ta force et ton courage A d?fricher les champs d'un duc et pair. Jamais ses pas n'ont foul? son domaine, Loin de l'Irlande il voyage en seigneur. Infortun?, la disette est prochaine, Quitte ? jamais ce s?jour du malheur. Des flots, etc.

  En cultivant des savanes fertiles, Garde ta foi, si tu veux prosp?rer; Fais tes adieux a nos sillons st?riles; Sans esp?rance il faut nous s?parer. Prends cet argent, fruit de longs sacrifices, Au centenaire un peu de pain suffit, La mer est belle, et les vents sont propices; Pars, mon enfant, ton ai?ul te b?nit. Des flots, etc.[11]

  There were tears in the woman's soft voice, and when she finished therewere tears in the eyes of at least one of her listeners.

  'Thanks, mademoiselle,' cried O'Hara, with emotion; 'thanks for thatlittle tribute to the sorrows and affection of poor Ireland. He whowrote it knew the land, at least, in spirit.'

  'He has never been there, sir, has not my friend, Laurent B?nic; he isbut a humble carpenter, but he has lear
ned to love the green Erin, theyounger sister of our France, as I have.'

  'Is that the B?nic who wrote "Robert Surcouf," a rattling corsairballad?' demanded Friezecoat.

  'The same, sir.'

  'Will you ask Mademoiselle Berthe to make me a copy of it, words andmusic, and will you allow me to send her a present of some of our Irishmusic in return?'

  'Certainly; shall we not, Berthe?' Berthe smiled happily. 'And I'll askyou, sir, to come to hear her play your country's music. He who has beenkind to the old soldier's grand-daughter is welcome to the old soldier'shearth.'

  Shortly afterwards the two Irishmen, who had made such a rare rencontre,bade their farewells to the Frenchman and his grand-daughter, and left.

  'He's a regular old brick, that Chauvin,' said Friezecoat on thedoorstep, 'and I'll remember that song to his grand-daughter. If shewasn't my sister to-day, she may be something nearer some day.Good-night.'

  'You're going, and you've not told me----'

  'Not to-night. Search the side-pocket of that coat, and you'll findfifty francs in it. _Au revoir._'

  And this strangest of strange characters jumped into thehackney-carriage and disappeared by a street leading to the Panth?on,leaving O'Hara in a brown study in the brown shadows of the Rue de laVieille Estrapade.

  He was roused from his reverie by an affectionate whine, now becomefamiliar. It was the dog, forgotten when they entered the house, and whohad been lying patiently by its threshold. He returned the creature'swelcome with a caress, and determined, as he had fallen in with him socuriously, and as he had shown so lively a sense of gratitude andfidelity--much more than humanity usually permits itself to be betrayedinto--to take Pat back to his lodgings and adopt him. He did not fearthe Caudine forks now, for he had the grand passport, the jingling gold,in his pocket, and the old pride returned to his port and the jovialdefiance to his eye. Gaily he strode down by the Rue Soufflot to theBoulevard St. Michel--we believe he might even have been heard whistling'Rory O'More,' to the huge delight of the dog, who capered at hisheels--until he reached the caf? of _la Jeune France_, where he came toa dead stop on the pavement, as if debating something in his mind.

  'No,' he said at last, 'I shan't go in; I'll see, for once, if I cankeep a good resolution when I have the means of breaking it. Egad, thisis a day of adventures for me. If half these things were written downin a story, the world would say the author was a lunatic, or imagined hewas writing for fools!'

  Not the least grateful surprise awaited him at his hotel in the Rue duFour when he re-entered. It was a letter of credit for twenty poundsfrom a debtor in Ireland, which the _concierge_, who knew thehandwriting, smilingly slipped into his fingers.